


O, Pious Circumstance!

by Crowgirl



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade Valentine's Day Fic Dump [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Porn, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Lupercal, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been one kiss -- one <i>stupid</i> fucking kiss because weres are distractible and drugged up weres in the middle of some kind of religious festival are <i>really</i> distractible and Sam needed time to get into position.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O, Pious Circumstance!

Castiel curls his fingers around the back of Dean’s neck, his palm resting just below Dean’s ear, and the short, sweat-soaked strands of hair prickle against his skin. Dean leans into him and presses his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder, closes his eyes. He can feel the weight of Cas’ hand and it brings back the memory of Castiel’s mouth all soft on his, distracting despite the circumstances. 

Who knew that Dean Winchester had a first kiss left in his life that really was going to make the world disappear around him. And on Valentine’s day no less which kinda makes him wince -- is it less of a cliche it’s because of werewolves?

‘You speak to me and my bones become...incandescent,’ Castiel says softly and Dean shudders. He doesn’t know if it’s adrenaline or desire or what but he wants to feel it again. It’s a spark low in his belly that makes him want to get as close to Cas as he can and then a little bit closer. ‘I did not know it was possible to feel like that.’

‘Cas, I..’ He can’t think of anything to say. There’s silence -- more silence -- silence broken only by the steady _cracklerumblepop_ of the burning house next to them. He supposes they should really be a little more concerned about that but, hey, all the occult shit had gone up in flames aleady and the rest of the house is burning down into its own basement in the neatest possible way.

Castiel shoves himself away from Dean and Dean staggers back a step, looking up at Castiel to see eyes bright with anger and a jawline tense enough to cut. ‘Then -- then _fuck_ you if you do not know what that means.’

‘Cas, _wait!’_ They’re standing in front of a burning house, they just killed their way through a nest of fucking _stupid_ werewolves, and if Cas walks away now, Dean might just break in half. He doesn’t know what the hell’s going on or what the fuck he’s going to say, so he just grabs Cas by the shoulders and kisses him instead. He knows he’s covered in dirt and blood and more than a little ash and Cas tastes much the same, but there’s an undertone of sweetness, a cleanness to Castiel’s mouth that Dean wants to pull into himself and keep there. Or if he can’t do that, he wants to vanish into it.

Castiel wrenches away and the noise he makes might almost be categorized as a snarl. _‘Fuck_ you, Dean!’

Dean keeps a grip on his arm, feeling Castiel’s muscles tighten and pull against him. ‘Yeah, yes. That’s what you want? Yes.’ His body’s tingling all over, his muscles still singing from the fight -- if Castiel spun him around and pulled his pants down, Dean honestly thinks he’d probably go for it with a whoop and a holler.

Castiel’s expression blackens and he yanks his arm free, sending Dean stumbling back a half-step in the muck and cinders. There’s a roaring crash and a sudden puff of smoke and cinders from their right and Dean flinches back before he can think. The remaining support beam of the front wall has given up the fight and fallen inwards, taking what remained of the staircase with it. The rubble settles and blooms fire again, sending up a new plume of smoke into the night sky. 

‘You _tease_ me, Dean.’ Castiel’s voice is low and hoarse, partly with smoke and partly, Dean thinks, with -- something else he doesn’t want to think about too closely. 

Dean steps forward, into Castiel’s space, deliberately taking away the space between them. ‘Then make me _stop.’_

He can’t do it himself. 

He knows he can’t. He’ll tease and tease and tease the both of them until they go up in fucking smoke but he can’t do anything else. He doesn’t know if he isn’t brave or dumb or crazy enough -- or maybe he’s too much of all of those things, but if Castiel walks -- if this sonofabitch crazyass motherfucker turns around and _walks away,_ Dean is pretty sure he will never be the same again.

It had been one kiss -- one _stupid_ fucking kiss because weres are distractible and drugged up weres in the middle of some kind of religious festival are _really_ distractible and Sam needed time to get into position. 

Castiel snorts and cocks his head to one side, pulling his mouth down to caricature Dean’s expression. ‘It isn’t important, Cas -- it doesn’t matter, Cas.’ Castiel isn’t backing away, isn’t letting him look away. And _when_ had he learned to imitate Dean so well?

Dean throws his hands in the air and lets them smack into his thighs. ‘So I _lied!_ Big fuckin’ surprise, Cas -- I _lied!_ I said that something that was important wasn’t -- call the fuckin’ news!’ He turns around, cups his hands around his mouth, and hollers into the flaming pile of rubble: ‘Dean Winchester _lied_ about something!’ A pile of cinders a few yards from them shifts and sends up a plume of smoke, but other than that nothing happens.

Castiel stares at him for a long minute and then, quietly, the rage drained from his voice, says, ‘Nothing that we did tonight is important, Dean.’ 

Dean bristles but before he can say anything, Castiel goes on. ‘The girl we rescued will be dead in two years. The queen you shot will be replaced before the next Lupercal. And it isn’t..’ His mouth twists and he pauses, takes a breath, then goes on more slowly. ‘It is not _important_ that I love you. Only -- it is not unimportant to me.’

Dean swallows, swallows again, tries desperately to find some moisture in his mouth. ‘You love everybody.’

Castiel’s mouth twists into a bitter smile Dean hasn’t seen before and doesn’t like seeing now. ‘As I was created to do. But you are the one whose side I cannot leave.’

‘Fuck.’ Dean’s not sure he means to say anything, the word just sort of -- comes out.

‘Even when I wish to,’ Castiel adds bleakly and his hand slides away, over Dean’s shoulder, down his arm.

Without letting himself think too much about it, Dean grabs Castiel’s hand and locks it between his. ‘So don’t fucking go. I told you. You want this, we’ll do it.’

Castiel sneers -- actually _sneers_ at him. ‘Dean Winchester, universal sacrifice. And what makes you think I would want that? I _rescued_ you from sacrifice!’

Dean glowers. ‘Who the fuck said anything about sacrifice?’ He grabs Castiel’s shoulders and pulls him in again, pressing their mouths together. If Castiel really wants to fight free, there’s no way he can hold on.

Castiel holds himself stiff, leaning back away from Dean’s body for a moment or two, then his hands wrap around Dean’s biceps and he _pulls._ Dean stumbles forward the last half-step or so until he’s pressed against Castiel knee to shoulder.

So there’s that question answered anyway. 

Dean pulls back far enough to breath and leans his forehead against Castiel’s; he can hear Cas’ breathing rough and unsteady which is kind of reassuring. Personally, he feels a little dizzy and a little crazy and a _lot_ oversensitized so when Castiel brushes fingertips over his collarbone, pushing aside the ragged edges of cloth from where that guard were cut at him, he gasps out loud.

Castiel’s eyes are bright this close up, bright and dark blue. ‘So sensitive?’

‘Catch me sometime when I’m not ninety percent adrenaline,’ Dean mumbles into Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel’s fingertips slide over the arch of bone again and slip under the shoulder of his t-shirt, brushing over what Dean knows will be a bruise in the morning. It takes a minute before Dean notices that his fingers are just clenched into the folds of Castiel’s smoke-stained trenchcoat when he could probably be doing much more interesting things with them. 

Carefully, he loosens the fingers of his right hand and digs his way through layers of cloth -- coat, suit jacket, shirt, Jesus why are there so many -- until he finally finds skin. It feels like a major victory, one he hadn’t realised he was waiting for, when he flattens his palm over Castiel’s ribs, presses his thumb over the line between muscle and bone, and runs it down along the slight dip that leads to his navel.

Castiel makes a noise that’s halfway between a gasp and a groan and pushes himself bodily against Dean. This would work great if Dean had anything to brace against but there’s nothing behind him and once he starts to stumble he can’t find his balance. He comes up against something that doesn’t give and has just enough time to glance around and realize it’s a tree before Castiel is all _over_ him: hands, fingers, mouth, tongue. The rags of his t-shirt disappear somewhere and Castiel’s fumbling at the zip of his jeans and holy _shit_ who knew it was going to be hard to keep up with a frigging _angel!_

He grabs the lapels of Castiel’s suit jacket. ‘Cas -- Cas -- Cas, _wait_ a goddamned second!’

Castiel’s hands still immediately and he looks up at Dean with an expression that’s halfway between completely distracted by sex and completely terrified. He looks like he’s waiting for Dean to hit him and that -- well, that just cannot stand. Dean may have gotten into this because he never did learn to back down when playing ‘chicken,’ but he’s not gonna start lying now and say it was a bad call or he’s doing this for a dare. He’s hard enough for his zipper to hurt and if he could change anything about what’s going on right now, it would be the lack of a bed. A _big_ fucking bed. And a door with a good solid Sam-proof lock.

But right here and now Castiel’s looking a bit like he’s waiting for Dean to kick him in the stomach and that really isn’t what he had in mind. 

‘No -- look -- it’s just easier if--’ Dean loses track of what he was going to say in pushing the trenchcoat and suit jacket off Castiel’s shoulders. The fabric keeps tangling until Castiel gets the idea and shrugs the whole mess onto the ground. ‘Okay, okay, then -- then this -- this has got to go --’ Dean fumbles at the buttons on Castiel’s shirt until he loses patience and just yanks at the placket. A key button or two pop -- one hits Dean on the cheekbone and he really could care less right now. Castiel’s hands are back on _him_ which is definitely where he thinks they should be from now on and _he_ can get his hands on Cas. 

Castiel smells like sweat and blood and smoke and very faintly of something like cinnamon or some other fancy spice Dean doesn’t know the name of. There’s a clean patch up the side of Castiel’s neck; Dean follows it with his tongue and feels the vibration of Castiel’s groan against his mouth. Castiel’s fingers clench in the waistband of Dean’s boxers and Dean realises vaguely that somewhere in there Cas got his jeans undone. There’s warm air blowing against his thighs from the fire and this is an _incredibly_ stupid place to stop and have a quickie.

But he’s not about to stop now.

Castiel’s fingers hesitate on his hips and Dean pulls back a little, enough to see that Castiel’s biting his lower lip hard enough to leave white dents. ‘Cas?’

Castiel’s eyes shift up to Dean’s face momentarily and then back down to where his fingers are knotted in faded plaid. ‘I --’

‘Boxers, Cas. They come down.’ Dean puts his hands over Castiel’s and starts pushing the fabric down his hips. Castiel wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrists and pushes himself up against Dean like a cat. Dean can see his face in the flaring light and it’s scrunched together, his eyes shut tight.

Dean would take this chance to make a bad joke or get in some crack about Cas not being able to handle the full Winchester experience but-- ‘You okay?’

Castiel looks up at him and nods. ‘May -- can I --’

Dean swallows hard against something warm and soft and swelling in his chest. That can wait. He knows the feeling -- it’s been around for awhile even if he’s been ignoring it. It’ll keep. ‘Go to town.’

Castiel cocks his head momentarily then apparently decides that meaning is obvious from context and slides to his knees, taking Dean’s boxers with him. 

Dean would be at least a little embarrassed at how eager his cock makes him look, popping out of the tangle of cloth like a jack-in-the-box, the head slick and shining already but Castiel _licks his fucking lips_ and traces a fingertip down the curve of it and Dean digs his fingernails into the tree behind him and just hangs the fuck on. 

Castiel licks off the finger he’s just used to outline Dean’s dick and Dean swears that whimpering sound did not come from him. Castiel glances up at him and even in this uncertain light, Dean can see the corner of his mouth turn up. Without looking away, Castiel leans forward and licks over the tip of Dean’s cock, swiping up the moisture there with the flat of his tongue and swallowing like it’s the best fucking thing he’s tasted all year. He hadn’t looked this happy about chocolate cherry ice cream and Dean had thought that might provoke a spontaneous orgasm.

‘Good?’ Castiel asks, tilting his head as if there is some room for fucking _doubt_ here.

Dean swallows, tries to think of something to say, fails. ‘Please?’ It comes out wavering and breathy and he’d like to kick himself except that Castiel _smiles_ at him like he almost _never_ does, no bitterness, no disappointment, just open and happy. He runs the pad of his thumb along the underside of Dean’s cock, pressing momentarily just below the head and stroking his thumb firmly back down to the root, enough to make Dean’s hips jerk involuntarily. 

‘You taste good,’ Castiel says, almost thoughtfully, sucking off the tip of his thumb. He looks up at Dean again and leans forward -- this time, there’s no preamble, no thoughtful testing, and Dean damn near chokes with the rush. It’s nearly an overload: heat and wet and suction all at once but Castiel reaches up with his free hand and interlaces his fingers with Dean’s, locking their palms together.

‘Oh...oh, _fuck...’_ Dean groans as his knees start to buckle a little. Every muscle in him wants to curl in, towards the coiling pleasure in his low belly, and before he realises it, he’s almost doubled-over, totally graceless, eyes tight shut, the hand that had been on the tree on Castiel’s shoulder, the other hand tight around Castiel’s fingers. 

Castiel pauses for a second, smoothing his tongue along the underside of Dean’s cock, pressing against the head hard enough to make sweet sparks shoot up along Dean’s spine. 

‘Fuck... _Cas_...f-fuck, I...’ Whatever else he might have been about to say is lost in sudden tightness and suction and he is _gone_. It’s brilliant agony, hollowing him out inside, and he never wants it to be done. He hears himself cry out and then he can’t hold himself up anymore. His ass lands on the crumpled pile of his jeans and he can feel Castiel tugging him forward slightly, pulling him against Castiel’s chest and shoulder. ‘Jesus… Cas, I… I didn’t...I was...’

‘Please...Dean...’ Castiel’s voice is rough and a little choked and even through post-orgasmic fog, Dean realises he’s missed out on something key. He blinks his eyes clear enough to see Castiel’s hand, clenching and unclenching spasmodically on his own thigh -- and he realises that Cas is still _dressed_ which has got to be a sin against something somewhere. 

‘Here, here… I gotcha… I gotcha...’ Dean reaches out, a little wobbly, and weaves his fingers through Castiel’s, helping him tug down his zipper. He’d like to be able to put a little more finesse into this but finesse can wait for a day when Castiel isn’t ramrod tense. Dean pulls Cas back against himself, taking the weight on his knees and shoving Castiel’s pants down just far enough to free his dick. The light from the fire isn’t the best and Dean isn’t the world’s greatest connoisseur of cocks or anything but he has to admit he likes the feel of this one. It’s smooth and slick against his palm and Castiel jerks against him when he thumbs over the head. 

‘What d’you like, Cas...’ Dean wraps their twined fingers around hot, soft flesh and Castiel moans against his ear. ‘Like this?’ Dean guides their hands into something like the rhythm he likes to use on himself: short, firm strokes, a bit of a squeeze at the base.

Castiel moans again, something that might have been meant to be words, and half-twists, burrowing against Dean’s shoulder. There’s something in the sound and the gesture that goes straight back to Dean’s cock and if he could get hard again this fast, he’d give it a damned good shot right now. 

‘This good?’ Castiel’s dripping moisture over their hands, enough slick to let Dean tighten their combined grip, give Castiel something to push into. He does, tentatively at first. ‘Go on, Cas - s’okay, s’all good, I gotcha...’ 

Castiel pushes up harder, once, twice, then he’s crying out, hiding his face against Dean’s chest, and there’s a warm pulse over Dean’s fingers. Before he can think about it, Dean touches the tip of his tongue to the wetness and -- well, it’s not gonna replace beer at the top of his list any time soon but -- it’s not bad. Tangy. A little salty. 

‘Dean -- Dean, I --’ Castiel is coming around, pushing himself away a little so he can see Dean’s face. 

‘That more what you had in mind?’ Dean tries a grin but thinks it probably comes out a little soft ‘round the edges -- which is how he feels. He wants to reach up and push Castiel’s loose dark hair off his forehead and out of his eyes; he wants to chase his own flavor over the back of Castiel’s tongue. 

‘I...’ Castiel takes in a deep breath and lets it out a little unsteadily. ‘That was very good.’

‘Yeah. It was.’ 

Before Dean can say anything else, Castiel is on his feet, tugging his trousers back up and holding out a hand for Dean. 

Well. Dean blinks up at him for a minute. He’s never been on the receiving end of a ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am’ before but he probably does have one coming, he thinks a little sourly. He pushes himself to his feet without Castiel’s hand and yanks his jeans and boxers back up. His boxers have a spreading wet spot on them but he zips himself up without comment.

‘Dean--’

Dean looks up, ready to come out with the first nasty thing he can think of. He feels _used_ and pissed off about it. ‘What?’

Castiel leans in and kisses him, one hand soft around the back of Dean’s neck. 

‘What the hell was--’ Dean starts as soon as Castiel pulls back, even _more_ pissed that Cas would try a cheap trick like that to--

‘Incandescence smolders. It does not die.’

Oh. Well. Fuck. Dean stares at him and feels the bitterness dry up and blow away as if it has never been. ‘Happy Valentine’s day, Cas.’

‘Happy Valentine’s day, Dean.’

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the history of the First Crusade written by [Fulcher of Chartres](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fulcher_of_Chartres).
> 
> No.
> 
> Really.
> 
> And for those of you who worry about this kind of thing: I don't know where Sam is. I think he's taking that girl they rescued home, having possibly cast an eye over the Dean and Castiel situation and decided that 'away' is the best place for him to be. Anyway, I know he's fine.


End file.
